


Dedication

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-21
Updated: 2003-08-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: Margaret helps Leo through a crisis





	Dedication

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Dedication**

**by:** Baked Goldfish

**Pairing(s):** Leo/Margaret  
**Rating:** YTEEN, just for the hell of it. Okay, so parts of it are dark.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. Don't pretend that I'm better than The Great Aaron Sorkin. Don't sue, you'll only get debts and stale cheese curls.  
**Spoiler:** Kinda sorta "The Portland Trip" 

The cell phone rang, its shrill whistle sounding that much louder at 3:05 a.m. Groggily, Margaret fumbled around for the offensive device. "Hello," she mumbled into the phone once she finally found it. 

"Margaret, I'm about to get drunk as hell and I really don't give a damn." 

"Who--Sir?" She sat up in the bed, all thoughts of sleep gone instantly. "You don't want to do this," she warned. 

"Hell yeah, I do. I just wanted you to know it, 'sall," came the indignant reply. 

//You wouldn't have called if you didn't want to be stopped, you stubborn old man.// "Sir, are you at home?" 

A short burst of sarcastic laughter came over the phone. "I don't *have* a home, anymore, Margaret." She took this as a yes, and left her own apartment for her car. It was raining outside, and she hoped to high hell that the clouds wouldn't mess up the cell's signals. 

"I'm coming over to see you now," she stated quietly, calmly. Totally the opposite of how she felt at the moment. 

"No you're not, you don't even know where I--where I stay." The last three words didn't come out nearly as indignant as the first part of the sentence. 

"I can forge the President's signature, sir. I think I'd know where you live." 

Minutes later, she was standing outside her boss' door, knocking almost impatiently. Briefly, she wondered why he was still on the phone with her when she was literally at his doorstep. He still wouldn't open the damn door, though, content to tell her on the phone his entire plan. Plans to get pissy drunk, and pass out on the couch, and hopefully not wake up for a while. The line went dead all of a sudden. Frantically, Margaret searched her purse for the extra key that he still didn't know she had. In her anxious haste, the key missed the keyhole three times before she finally managed to get the door unlocked. 

He was on the couch. He already had an open bottle of something in his hand, and it was being raised to his lips ever so swiftly. Thinking quickly, she tossed her purse at the bottle, knocking it out of his hand. He looked as the bottle hit the ground, spilling its contents on the rug, and then looked at Margaret, stunned. "How the hell-" 

"Spare key, sir." 

"Oh. . . But with your purse-" 

"High school softball pitcher. All-American." 

He just looked at her, that stunned expression on his face that Margaret had gotten used to a long time ago. "I never told you where I was," he said, after a length. 

She looked at him with that blank expression that he had gotten used to a long time ago. "No, sir." 

With a shrug, he looked at the bottle that was on the ground. "That was a perfectly good bottle of-" 

"Did you drink any?" She didn't mind interrupting him on this occasion. 

"No," came the dejected reply. "Never got the chance." 

"Is there more?" 

A pause. Then: "No." 

Margaret knew he was lying. With a look of determination on her face, she headed to what looked like the kitchen. Finding another few bottles in the fridge, she proceeded to pour their contents down the kitchen sink. Turning to leave, she was slightly startled to find him standing in the kitchen entrance, blocking her exit. He looked harried; his hair was mussed, tie and jacket gone, top shirt button undone, sleeves rolled up loosely. His eyes were the worst. Tired, uncharacteristically sad. His arms hung limply by his sides, shoulders slightly slumped. 

"Why, Margaret?" His voice sounded old, haggard. 

"Sir?" 

"Why'd you come? Why do you even care?" 

For once, Margaret did not give him that blank stare. Taken aback by the question, her face wore an expression of surprise. She quickly composed herself, and decided to ignore the question. "Do you have anymore, sir?" 

He looked at her for a moment, with those sad eyes, before stuffing his hands in his pockets and dropping his head. "Yeah," he mumbled. Waving his hand towards his left, he added, "The bedroom." She brushed past him, business-like as ever, and headed into the bedroom. Finding even more bottles, she headed to the ajoining bathroom to empty those. After she was done, she searched the bathroom, finding another bottle in the cabinet below the sink. She looked in the medicine cabinet, just in case, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found nothing but an unopened bottle of cough syrup and some bandages. 

She stepped out of the bathroom to find him sitting on his bed, looking at her curiously. "You still haven't answered my question, Margaret." His voice was unusually quiet and unassuming. 

"Sir?" 

"Why do you care. I'd like to know." 

She regarded him for a moment before answering. "I don't know, sir. I just do." 

"Really?" 

"Yes, sir. So do a lot of other people. There are a lot of people who would follow you into the depths of hell, or even into a Republican Party convention if you asked them." A glimmer of a smile appeared on his lips for a moment before disappearing, and she was happy to see that her weak attempt at humor had some sort of positive effect. "Sir, you know that, don't you?" 

He was silent for a minute. Sadness seemed to decend on the room. "I miss her, Margaret. I've been missing her forever, but I *really* miss her now." He lay his head in his hands and murmered, "Did I do the right thing?" 

Margaret took an unsure step toward him. //Professionalism be damned. It's nearly four in the morning. There'll be time enough for professionalism in a few hours.// She walked softly towards him, and sat beside him. Pulling him into a warm embrace, she answered him with a firm but quiet, "Yes." 

He didn't fight it. "God, I messed up. She was there for me through everything, Margaret. Every damn thing. And I threw her away for--for what? Two to six years of work? She was perfectly good for me, but I pushed her away." Margaret felt the first tear hit her blouse, moisture burning through the fabric. "Nearly thirty-five years, gone like that. With one little signature. Can you believe that, Margaret? I threw away almost thirty-five years for two to six. I'm so stupid." 

"No, you're not," she stated adamantly. "You wouldn't be chief of staff if you were stupid. Furthermore, it's not just work, it's serving the people of the United States of America. You're doing everyone good in the White House." 

He was quiet for a while. "Margaret?" 

"Yes?" 

"Are you just saying that?" 

"No." 

"'Kay. What's today?" 

"Saturday." 

He rested in her embrace for a few minutes, the sound of light rain outside and the hissing of the heater the only things breaking the silence. "Gimme the phone," he finally said. 

Margaret saw the phone on the nightstand. He was sitting closer to it, and for a moment she wondered why he didn't just reach over and get it himself. Then she noticed that right by the phone was a small photo of him and Jenny. Wordlessly and understanding, she stretched awkwardly around him and nabbed the phone. Handing it to him, she watched as he dialed a number and put the phone to his ear, always staying in her embrace. "Jed? Yeah, I'm not coming in today. Call if you need me." After a pause, he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I know. I'll see ya, then." He hung up and let his arm drop back into his lap. 

"You weren't really gonna drink any of that stuff, were you?" 

"I dunno. I--well. I can't say either way. I, uh. . . Margaret?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Were you serious when you said you--never mind." 

"Okay." 

"Thanks, Margaret." 

"Okay." She valiantly tried to stifle a yawn, but failed miserably. 

"Margaret," he murmured, his head still resting on her shoulder. 

"Hmm?" Looking down, she saw his eyes were beginning to droop. 

"I'm gonna go to sleep now." 

She took this as her cue to get up and leave. "Alright. I'll see you, sir." 

"Margaret?" 

She turned and looked at him. "Yes, sir?" 

"I've got the day off. Which means you do too. Which means you can go sleep in, now." 

"Yes, sir." She smiled and was about to leave. 

"And one more thing, Margaret." 

"Sir?" 

"It's the weekend, for God's sake," he stated warmly with a half-smile. "You can call me Leo." 

-end- 


End file.
